Page 37 of Love In Provence
We tuck in.
‘This is amazing,’ Maria says to Ed.
‘I wish I’d been a bit more careful, made it look like fine dining,’ he says, excusing it again.
‘It really is lovely,’ I say, but I don’t think he hears me.
‘And the spice in the chickpea salad is gorgeous. Just right,’ says the mayor.
Graham agrees, ‘Yeah, perfect,’ and spoons in another mouthful.
There is that wonderful lull in conversation when people are enjoying what they’re eating, interrupted only by the occasional crunch of the crisp nachos.Finally, we’re passing round the cakes with a jug of coffee.
‘Henri would have loved this,’ I find myself saying out loud.
‘This is excellent, really excellent. Even the crisps sandwiches. You could charge people to come here and eat at this table,’ says the mayor.
We laugh.
‘I’m not sure people would pay for crisps sandwiches!’ Graham says.
‘Or Batman fairy cakes!’ Keith laughs.
That night, in the warm, sticky summer air, I ring Fabien. He answers and it sounds noisy again, and fun.
‘I can’t really hear you!’ he says, laughter in his voice.
‘I just rang to say I miss you!’ I shout.
‘Come and join us!’ he shouts back.
‘I can’t. I have too much to do here. We can’t all be off having fun,’ I say, and suddenly bite my tongue.
‘You told me to go.’ Fabien sounds annoyed. ‘I thought this is what you wanted.’
‘I did. But … I want some time for us too.’
‘You are always too busy, Del. Too busy to make time. You are so busy helping others. You can’t help yourself!’ The noise gets louder from whichever bar they’re in, or whatever festival, and I’m more infuriated with every peal of laughter that floats down thephone. Is that a woman’s voice I can hear, right next to him? Is it Monique?
‘Just go and have fun, Fabien,’ I say, knowing now isn’t the time to tell him what’s been going on here.
‘Wait! This is work! You cook and love it! I play guitar!’
How can I tell him I can’t even cook any more?
The signal breaks up and the call finishes. I feel wretched, harassed, my ears ringing from the noise of the festival.
I look towards the barn and see lights. Someone must have left them on again, I think and sigh. Or is it midnight popcorn once more? I enjoyed it last time. I slip my feet into my flip-flops and grab my dressing-gown. I could do with some popcorn. In fact, popcorn could be just what I need. If Fabien is out having fun, I will too. I head away from the terrace and am nearly at the open-side barn when I smell something amazing. Something is cooking, or is it the lingering smell of dinner? And then I hear it. A deep, sorrowful sobbing. I stand, stock still, wondering if I should just turn and leave whoever it is in privacy. But I can’t. I can’t let someone be that upset and not offer comfort. I step out of the shadows and, to my surprise, see Jen standing over the cooker, crying as she stirs the pot on the stove. She seems so together that it’s a shock to see her like this.
I may reconsider and leave her to it. She’s here atthis time of night because she wants to be alone. I begin to turn, and Ralph suddenly barks, making me jump, Jen too. She looks up. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s just me, Jen,’ I whisper, so I don’t wake anyone else. She’s trying to wipe away the tears as she stirs the pot and sniffs. I’m not sure what she needs right now. Do I hug her, pretend nothing has happened, that it’s perfectly normal for the woman who doesn’t cook to be standing here at one in the morning, cooking and crying? I do what instinct suggests and say, ‘I thought you might be cooking midnight popcorn again.’
She lets out a big sob.
‘Jen, what on earth is the matter?’ I hug her as I speak.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Again!’ She rubs the back of her hand under her nose. The smell of whatever she’s cooking is making my mouth water.
